


The Least Among Us

by Felicia_Rottingstone



Series: The Rogue of Orzammar [3]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Character Study, First time out of Orzammar, Gen, Grey Warden Joining, Ostagar (Dragon Age), Pickpocketing, Pranks and Practical Jokes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-29
Updated: 2019-09-05
Packaged: 2020-09-28 23:21:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20434157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Felicia_Rottingstone/pseuds/Felicia_Rottingstone
Summary: Natia Brosca is officially a surface dwarf, and she isn't quite what anyone expects. She has no expectations, and so, can never be disappointed.





	1. Untold Wealth

Natia Brosca had never been so well fed in her life. She’d never had so much sleep in her life, nor on such a comfortable bed. She’d never had so much time to simply think and relax and talk. She’d never seen so much space.

The first night out from Orzammar, she’d stared up at the stars as she shoveled spoonfuls of stew into her mouth. They were like tiny twinkling diamonds on a blanket of deep blue. Not black, as Duncan had said. It wasn’t like she was looking into the unlit mouth of a cavern. No, the night sky had color to it that reminded her of a velvet pillow she’d once seen when she’d broken into a noble’s house to ransack it for loose coin. At times, she could even see the subtle shift of color when a cloud passed by. It was beautiful.

The stew was good too, which was why she’d had three bowls of it. Duncan had seen her eyeing the pot after her first bowl and cheerily encouraged her to help herself to more. “We have plenty,” he’d said. He’d laughed when she’d crawled to the fire a third time, her hunger not yet abated, but she didn’t feel like he was making fun of her. She felt like he was enjoying her enthusiasm, and even if he wasn’t, he could laugh at her all day long if it meant she could keep eating.

He laughed again the next morning when he offered her breakfast and her jaw dropped in shock.

“We’re eating again?” she whispered, afraid she’d misunderstood or misheard.

“We’ve got a long road to travel to reach Ostagar. You must eat to keep your strength up,” he told her.

“But, we just ate a few hours ago. It hasn’t even been a day yet,” she reminded him. He gave her a strange look then, one of both amusement and pity, but she was too focused on the bubbling pot atop the flames to notice.

It took almost a month before she learned not to scarf down her food at every meal. After so long living on scraps, being lucky to eat once a day, if at all, it was hard to break the habit of not devouring everything in sight when it was in front of her. Even though her brain knew there would be another meal a few hours later, her stomach repeatedly told her to stock up because she didn’t know when she’d get to eat next. Duncan indulged her feasting without a single comment of judgment.

The effects on her body were easy to notice. Every morning she bounced from her tent with abundant energy and raced about, unfazed by the unfamiliarity of the landscape. She was well-rested for the first time in her life, and the more food she ate, the more she felt like she could run. She often waited to get tired once evening camp had been made, only to find that sleepiness was a different sort from the bone-deep exhaustion she had been living with. She resorted to training with her sword and dagger just to be able to get to sleep.

Duncan watched the change in her with a careful eye. In Orzammar, she’d been surly and brash, ready to fight anyone and everything. The wear of 23 years on the fringes of a rigid society had hardened her into a weapon as unyielding as the stone itself. But here, in the Ferelden wilderness, the years seemed to peel away until she was like a child again, in awe at every new experience, from blossoming flowers to a pack of ravenous wolves that had set upon them one afternoon. To the first, she’d gone silent, staring at the white petals as if they were a rare treasure. To the second, she whooped and hollered as if it were a game, one she’d won quickly, cutting free the pelts as her trophy.

He hoped she’d be able to hang onto her enthusiasm after she underwent the Joining. So many recruits had become quieter, more serious versions of themselves once they’d undergone the change. Most of them, however, had not experienced the hardships Natia had, nor stared into the face of danger with the excitement of one unaware of her own mortality. No, the Wardens would do well to have her among their ranks, even if only to remind them of the life inherent in the world they were trying to save.

“Is that Lake Calenhad?” she asked one morning. They’d crested a hill to find an expanse of water on the other side, the clear water shimmering in the mid-morning sun.

“Not quite. It’s just a pond,” Duncan clarified. “Lake Calenhad is large enough you wouldn’t be able to see across it. We’ve already passed south of it, though. I’m sorry, you won’t be able to see it at this time.”

But the smile on Natia’s face as she looked at the pond hid any inkling of disappointment. 

“Can we stop and go swimming?” she asked, her eyes fixed on the water.

“Do you know how to swim?” Duncan asked in response.

“Nope.” She shrugged, her eagerness barely held in check behind twinkling eyes and a lop-sided smile. “I should learn, though, shouldn’t I?”

Duncan laughed. “You should, indeed.” 

It was late enough in the morning that they wouldn’t lose much time if they stopped a little early. He watched as she stripped off her armor, her dark hair hanging down her back as she dove into the water in just her small clothes. He thought about joining her, enjoying his own little swim under the pretense of teaching her, but found that she took to water with the same indomitable enthusiasm as she took to everything else. Suddenly, he didn’t want to intrude.

There were dark days ahead of her. He knew that with certainty, and he’d tried to warn her as best he could, but she let his ominous predictions roll off her. If nothing else, at least he had not ripped her from a good life and placed her into a worse one, as he’d been forced to with so many others. With her, at least, he could be satisfied knowing that she did not long for the home she left behind. 

And if she hated him for what her life would become, at least she would have the memory of these few months traveling to Ostagar, and know that for a while, she was happy.


	2. You've Got to Pick a Pocket or Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natia arrives at Ostagar and makes both a new friend and a new enemy.

The problem with people of noble birth is that they have different rules about what it means to be a good person. Stupid rules. Rules that make no sense to anyone but themselves. The human king Natia had met when she arrived at Ostagar had seemed decent enough, but it didn’t take long for her to see the cracks in his golden visage. He sat at the top with his gleaming armor, speaking of the glory of battle, meanwhile the soldiers who would do the majority of fighting struggled to fully equip themselves, having to barter and trade with the quartermaster when their coin ran out. His advisors chafed under his leadership and took it out on their subordinates, who took it out on their subordinates, who took it out on the grunts, who took it out on the elves. Everyone picked on someone, it seemed, and then patted themselves on the back for not being unlucky enough to be at the bottom. Natia figured humans were no better than dwarves that way.

The problem for Natia was that she knew what it was like to be at the bottom. In the slums, everyone was equal in their insignificance. If a casteless dwarf wanted respect from other brands, they had to prove they deserved that respect. That meant one of three things: fighting, stealing from the rich, or just not being a dick for no reason. Fighting didn’t seem to be a currency among the humans, and it was hard for Natia to not be a dick when they gave her so many reasons to be, so stealing from the rich it would have to be. At least that way she’d be able to buy some decent armor.

She wandered around the camp for a while, sizing up her marks. Duncan had instructed her to go find someone, but she’d already forgotten who. She could tell who would have a little bit of coin on them by the polish of their armor. Beat-up and dull, and they were too poor to be carrying money, but if it looked shiny and new and expensive, they probably were too rich to bother carrying their own coin too. What she wanted was a mark who wore armor that was used, but well-cared for. 

As she cased the camp, Natia began to notice other things as well. The people in robes in one corner were given a wide berth by the rest of the soldiers, indicating either respect or fear. The dogs in the kennels were fed and equipped better than some of the soldiers. A lot of the soldiers seemed to be praying to a maker, although she hadn’t yet learned what this maker made. Most importantly, wherever she went, not a single person seemed to notice her.

Perhaps it was that she was simply too short, and humans were unaccustomed to lowering their line of vision. She decided to experimentally bump into a fellow or two, to see if they reacted to her then. The first one grunted, but didn’t look down before continuing on. The second brushed past her, accommodating her path without actually acknowledging her presence. The third looked around wildly for who or what they had knocked into, but their eyes slipped off Natia as if she weren’t even there. She grinned at that.

The next time she bumped into someone, she came away with a shiny bronze coin. Her small hands slipped into pockets and purses with ease, and with all the armor, it was easy to miss the pressure of her lifts as she began to pickpocket one soldier after another. Emboldened by her success, her pile of treasure grew to include small daggers, rings, and an engraved silver flask.

She should have stopped while she was ahead. She shook have stashed her pile in a safe location or traded it in for better gear. She should have gotten back to looking for that what’s-his-name Duncan had sent her after. She should not have approached the dark-haired knight, drawn by the heavy pouch hanging off her belt. She should not have ignored the warning in her gut that told her this one was too perceptive, that her eyes were too intelligent darting from face to face as if to memorize them. She should not have stood so close, a knife out and ready to cut the purse strings. She should not have done a number of things, but hindsight is always more clear than foresight.

The knight didn’t even allow Natia’s knife to touch the leather strings. One minute, the human woman was looking out, scanning the sea of faces before her, and the next she had twisted to face Natia, one hand clamped around her wrist like an iron vice, her pale face contorted in fury.

“Who do you belong to, little dwarf?” she demanded, forcing Natia’s arm up until she was standing on tippy-toes.

It wasn’t the first time Natia had ever been caught pickpocketing. Granted, it had been years since she’d so poorly picked a mark, but she still knew how to weasel her way out of a bad situation.

“Oh, no! I’ve dropped it!” Natia exclaimed, her eyes darting to the ground. The knight’s eyes predictably followed, and Natia rewarded the human by kicking dirt up into them. Blinded, the knight’s grip on her wrist loosened enough for Natia to yank herself away. Then she was off, darting between bodies as the knight bellowed after her.

For such a large camp, there were surprisingly few places for Natia to hide. She darted past the quartermaster and up a ramp, hoping to find shelter at the top. Instead, she found a clear open space. Turning, Natia made note of the knight closing the distance between them. The woman’s eyes locked on Natia, and the dwarf went the only way she could, darting up the next ramp to another platform.

She came to a halt when she saw another soldier arguing with one of the robed people. At first, she paid them no mind, edging along the crumbling wall, looking for a break she could slip through. Then the mage stormed off, and the soldier turned to her.

“You know, the one good thing about the Blight is how it brings people together,” he chirped, a sardonic smile on his lips.

“Yeah, Blight. People. Good.” Natia was getting frantic now, sure that the knight would crest the ramp at any moment, and she’d be caught. The soldier said something else, but Natia didn’t quite catch it. “Huh?”

“Wait, I do know who you are,” he said, finally catching Natia’s full attention. “You’re Duncan’s new recruit. The dwarf. From Orzammar. Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Alistair, the new Grey Warden.”

“You!” Natia and Alistair jumped at the shout, and Natia’s face blanched. The knight looked even more furious at having had to chase the dwarf over such a distance. 

“Ser Cauthrien,” Alistair greeted in an overly cheery tone. “You look well today. Have you been working out?”

Natia took the time to dart around Alistair, hiding behind his bulk. Grey Wardens stuck together, right? She was trapped, with nowhere to escape to, so her only hope would be if this man interceded on her behalf.

“Step aside, Warden,” Cauthrien demanded. “That little thief will answer for her actions.”

“What little thief?” Alistair asked.

“The one hiding behind you,” she sneered. 

“Hmm, I’m not sure what you mean…” Alistair folded her arms across his chest, a look of deep confusion settling on his brow. “The only people I see are you and us Grey Wardens, and as you know, Grey Wardens don’t fall under your jurisdiction.”

Cauthrien spat at his feet. “I should have known. Your whole order is nothing but thieves and traitors. The whole lot of you is dishonorable. You never should have been allowed back into Ferelden.”

“Yes, I quite agree. It’s always a bad idea to have a group of soldiers specifically trained to kill darkspawn around when one is trying to kill darkspawn.”

Cauthrien didn’t reply. She let out a cry of frustration, turned on her heel, and marched away. Only when Natia could no longer hear the stomp of her boots did she emerge from the shelter of Alistair’s shadow.

“Uh, thanks for that,” she said, avoiding his gaze.

“Do you make a habit of stealing from women who could crush you between their fingers?” he asked. “I’d like to know if I should start wearing heavier armor.”

“Uh… I normally don’t get caught.” She smiled then, a toothy grin that forced a laugh out of him. 

“What did you even steal from her?”

Natia shrugged, but Alistair raised an eyebrow, unwilling to let it go. She sighed, reached down the front of her tunic, and withdrew a heavy pouch full of coins. “I’ll split it with you if you don’t tell Duncan,” she offered.

“Keep it,” Alistair said. “Use it to buy better armor. Besides, I have no doubt Cauthrien is already on her way to tattle on you. And next time, make sure you’ve got an exit plan that doesn’t involve using me as a shield. Deal?”

“Deal,” Natia agreed. She worried for a moment that he’d think less of her for being a thief, as the upper class often did. But Alistair simply grinned, and the knot of worry that she wouldn’t fit in with the Grey Wardens eased. He was no Leske, but maybe he could be a friend anyway.


	3. No Worse Than Dwarven Ale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natia becomes a fully-fledged Grey Warden.

Night had fallen by the time they’d returned to camp at Ostagar. The four soldiers who had wandered into the wilds that morning were now weary, their steps slow and their armor blood-spattered. The three men of the party looked pensive, consumed with thoughts of darkspawn and mysterious witches. Natia, however, still wore the same look of excitement as she'd had all day, and once Alistair had released them for the night, she mustered the energy to jog off in the direction of the kennels, a flower from the wilds clutched in her hand. 

For a few hours, there were no tasks or quests to complete. Alistair returned to Duncan to help prepare for the Joining, and Daveth and Jory found a spare wash bin with which to clean their armor and equipment. For Jory, it was a matter of decorum; he understood the honor that came with becoming a full Grey Warden and wanted his appearance to reflect the seriousness of the moment. Daveth, on the other hand, was more concerned about the retail value of his armor. His thoughts were on the new equipment he'd be issued and how much he could get from the quartermaster for selling his old things. If it was enough, maybe he could even send a little back to his mother in Denerim. 

Both men were in their small clothes when Natia found them again. She hadn't cleaned up much, but she must have dozed or eaten something because she once again had the energy to bounce around on her toes. 

"Oh, so Alistair told you already then," she commented, sweeping her eyes over the bare chests of the men. They looked at her with confusion. 

"Of course he did," Daveth lied quickly. 

"Told us what?" Jory asked at the same time, earning a sharp glare from the other man. 

"About the dress code for the evening…" Natia prompted. When no recognition registered on their faces, she continued. "Well, he said that we should come with nothing, not even armor. That it would get in the way. And I said that I didn't have anything else, and he said that just small clothes were fine." 

"We're supposed to wear just our small clothes?" Jory asked slowly, one eyebrow arching. "Why?" 

"Who knows?" Natia shrugged. "He still won't tell me anything about the Joining." 

"What's the matter, Ser Jory?" Daveth teased. "Afraid your wife won't like you showing off your assets?" 

A red flush spread over Jory's cheeks, but he didn't respond. 

"I guess you can either walk over there like that or put your armor back on only to take it off again," Natia said. "Personally, I'm going to find a good place to stash mine. I don't want it walking off in someone else's pack."

She shot a meaningful look at Daveth, earning an indignant yell from him as she sauntered away. Jory eyed the man suspiciously as well, and the two parted for a time, each choosing hiding places they'd remember. They rejoined each other's company at the foot of the walkway, ready to climb it together to face the mysterious ceremony that awaited them. 

“The more I hear about this joining, the less I like it,” Jory complained, his arms covering his chest as he began to shiver in the cold.

“Are you blubbering again?” Daveth rolled his eyes, but he didn’t leave the other man behind. 

“Why all these tests? Have I not earned my place?”

“Maybe it’s tradition. Maybe they’re just trying to annoy you,” Daveth suggested, but despite his glib tone, he had his own reservations. They both gazed uneasily up the path, toward their uncertain futures. There was no further reason to hesitate, yet the steps they took felt heavy, and it was only with great reluctance they crossed the final distance.

Duncan and Alistair waited at the top next to a blazing bonfire. On seeing them, Alistair's mouth hung open in shock, and Duncan frowned in disapproval. 

"Were you robbed?" Alistair asked. 

"What do you mean?" Daveth shot back. 

"You seem to have misplaced your clothing," Duncan observed in a calm, if bewildered, tone. 

"I guess if you've got it, flaunt it, huh?" Natia came to a stop next to them, her breathing heavy from having raced to join them. She was still in her full armor, although it was looking much cleaner now. "I really hope no one finds where you hid your stuff in that chest near the mage's tent and behind that tree next to the rock."

She successfully kept the grin off her face as the two half-naked men turned on her in rage, but she couldn't keep the twinkle from her eyes. 

"Enough," Duncan commanded in a booming voice. The others silenced but continued to stare daggers at her. 

She didn't let it faze her, just like she hadn't been fazed by the darkspawn that morning or the witches they met that afternoon. As Alistair spoke the traditional words and Duncan mixed the darkspawn blood with a vial and poured it into a chalice, her eyes continued to sparkle with amusement and excitement. It was only when Daveth sank to the ground, dead, that her eyes went dark, her expression suddenly stony and grim.

When Ser Jory backed away from them in resistance, Alistair feared she would try to join him, too afraid of the prospect of death to continue the ritual. Instead, her only reaction was to clench her jaw as she watched Duncan take a blade to Jory’s gut and end his life as assuredly as the ritual had ended Daveth’s. 

Finally, it was Natia’s turn with the chalice. She steadied her breathing as Duncan offered it to her and took it with hands that did not tremble or hesitate. Once more, her eyes swept over the bodies of the half-naked men who so recently had been her brothers-at-arms. Staring into the swirling dark liquid, she couldn’t help but wonder if she would share their fate. The ancestors had cursed her for the sins of her forefathers, and she had been born so unworthy she could not even die on the frontlines fighting darkspawn. If she drank of this chalice and succumbed, every terrible thing she had ever been told about the casteless would be confirmed. She would not be worthy.

On the other hand, if anyone was worthy of joining the ranks of the Grey Wardens, it was Ser Jory, born a warrior and who had volunteered for the order. Despite this, he lay dead not five feet from her. The knight from the day before had called the Grey Wardens dishonorable, so perhaps she did belong, whereas Jory did not.

_ What would Rica say? _ Natia asked herself. As if they had been carried to her on the wind all the way from Orzammar, she heard her sister’s words.

_ Given the same opportunities, we could lead an army just as well _ , she once said, railing against the rigidity of the caste system. Then Natia remembered what she’d told her the day of the fateful Glory Proving, when everything had changed forever.  _ I hope there’s more you want in life than being a copper-plated crime lord. Dream big. Be a Paragon! Don’t stop at becoming another Beraht. _

Dream big. Be a Paragon. It had seemed so ridiculous at the time. Natia couldn’t see past the dust clouds and cracked stone that surrounded her, and she’d laughed at Rica’s words. She couldn’t laugh now. Being a Grey Warden was a dream so big, she’d never thought to dream it, yet it was only a sip away. And if she helped end the Blight, maybe Paragon would be within reach, too. Then she could return to Orzammar, high on the accolades of victory, and save Rica from the doomed life of a failed concubine. Just like Rica had tried to save her.

Natia tipped the cup up and let the thick, bitter liquid slide down her throat. It burned and seared as it settled into her core, spreading from her center like a cold fire until she could feel it in her fingertips and toes. She felt a roar in her head, images of demons and dragons and darkspawn flooding her mind, blocking out everything around her. The dragon turned to look at her, peered into her soul, and then the whole world slanted and went dark.

Duncan and Alistair approached her prone body, worry etched into their faces. A Joining without any survivors would not bode well for the continuation of the order, especially if the coming battle would be as lethal as Duncan feared. Alistair let out a huff of relief when he noticed her chest rising and falling as she continued to breathe, then blushed and averted his eyes. Duncan permitted himself a small smile of relief before kneeling next to her, ready for her to wake.

Her eyes fluttered open and focused on the two men towering over her.

“How do you feel?” Duncan asked.

She groaned and pushed herself into a sitting position, rubbing her forehead before replying, “It’s no worse than dwarven ale.”

Alistair offered her a hand to help her rise, and she gave him a mischievous grin in return. If she felt the pain that he’d remembered from his own joining, she gave no indication as she returned to the camp proper for rest before the next step in preparing for the battle ahead. Nor did she rail against the deception or her close brush with death. When he later gifted her the Warden’s Oath amulet that they all received upon surviving, she even had that gleam back in her eyes, the one he’d begun to notice accompanying her more devious behaviors. She also had a longbow that looked suspiciously like the one Daveth had carried. 

And if, at times, she paused mid-stride to clutch the amulet of blood that hung on a chain around her neck, her face falling in devastation, no one noticed. Few trained their eyes low enough to watch her, save Alistair, and he knew to keep such things secret.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This scene was largely inspired by my habit of de-equipping Daveth and Jory before the Joining so I can sell their gear, which results in them being in their underwear for the cut-scene and Jory pulling a sword out of mid-air. Where were you hiding that sword, Jory? I do the same thing right before lighting the signal fire in the Tower of Ishal, but that's a little harder to explain in the narrative.


End file.
